Mental Health Starts with ME

There is a lot of material and advice on what we as people with mental illness should or shouldn’t do.  Maintain sleep hygiene, meditate when you can, take your meds regularly, exercise, visit your treatment team, and not be extra.  This evokes an image of me cross legged in the lotus position. in the middle of an office, probably during the Management Team meeting that I don’t want to attend, because well work is hard, and I wish I didn’t have to do it.  I’m generally busy with not wanting to get up / containing cry’s / trying not to knock over everything in my path and not being sleepy, that this other life stuff usually in my life, feels a lot extra.

I also get LOADS of um, well meaning advice, like don’t take everything personally, don’t absorb everything, pray etc.  Now as a self-confessed Spongebob Girl Emotional Squarepants, I am baffled by these suggestions.  Would I prefer not to melt when people move the items in my office that I lovingly arranged in will bring about productivity order?  Do I enjoy the awesome, increasing jolts of irritation, that feel like the inflamed chickenpox of the spirit?  Would I prefer not to cry because I don’t know why, at inconvenient times?  Not sure.  Let’s let the well meaning must have experienced mental illness and recovered people tell me.  Because living through and weathering the storms of Bipolar over the last DECADE could not have been instructive.

I may not do it well, I may not know how, but I am trying to live positively in the best way I know.  That differs from day to day, has varying levels of success.  Some days just don’t day and I have to write them off.  But those days aren’t weeks anymore, I wash on occasion, and haven’t been to hospital in the longest time.  I do like hospital, but the bars on the windows are kind of restrictive… I don’t even know if those are factors of success – but it means that I can kind of be a mom, work, and muddle through it fairly well.  And that’s how you manage your mental health my friends.  You put the important person first, and in my case, your chickens close by.   That important person – regardless of what anyone says or does – I’ve learnt is you.  After all, mental health starts with ME.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Verbal Volcano

I think that people with mental illness are amazing. For nothing other than opening their eyes, or deciding when not to, but for always trying.  I am acutely aware that those tries vary in let’s say intensity, dependent on where you are.  For example, I bought myself an awesome yoga band, designated a space in my home and mind and had a printed rather energetic exercise routine closeby.  I have not mustered up the courage to do the exercises.  No.  I haven’t even managed to get the outfit on.  That’s not true.  I AM wearing the sweatband with pride, because I thought, however momentarily, about exercising.  Ok.  Not really.  It’s just to keep my hair out my face.

I have spoken in my blog about how irritable I’ve become, and I’ve beckoned to my Treatment Team, setting appointments for private therapy and psychiatry my newly employed self can’t afford, but I know I need to go.   This or the Mental Illness Gods are paying an unfortunate amount of comical attention toward me and my life.  For example, and in quite a marked way recently,  my children often tell me lovingly that they are very glad that they became big before I was diagnosed.  My eye twitches and I ask what on earth they could mean by that?  Another is a lovely attachment the toddler (who I did not birth as far as I know) who lives with us has to me.  He cries during work interview skype calls (when I’m talking to pro-women pro-child NGO’s) because he loves me so much.  And his mother is quite unperturbed that this takes place.  And no matter how I look at her in a pointed manner, it falls on quite an un-receptive um, person.  And I don’t feel at all maternal or mentally healthy or anything else other than large, heated welts of irritation on me. And my mouth, it speaks irritated welt speech which is quite graphic.  I can’t help it.  Once you’ve lit my vulgar verbal volcano, I can’t help the language lava that comes out.

More seriously though last night I found myself yelling at my favorite things – my chickens – for stuff that probably wasn’t so major.   Ok it wasn’t major and I freaked out when I shouldn’t have.  If at all I felt sorry for myself (I immediately apologised to my children), I was immediately set straight by my awfully maternal psychiatrist – you are ALWAYS irritable, how is this different?  Straight face emoji.  My shrink is saying that I am a serial bitch.  Cough.  When she asked me how bad the irritation was on a scale of 1-10, I sourly thought:  I dunno, my bitch-o-mom-meter is clearly broken, but I’d give myself about a 15?  I didn’t say that, but am pleased that I will see her – and my therapist.  It’s about time.  Until then I am putting tape on my mouth so that it’s harder to respond with my liquid language – wish me luck and tell me how YOU deal with irritation, and those you’d like to erupt on?  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Mental Illness Misconceptions

Dear Readers and Followers, last night I trawled through WordPress a little, and my feed is mostly made up of Bipolar related ish – wonder why… Seriously though, I happened on an article posted by a fellow blogger which talked about what I thought is the desensitisation of real mental illness. And it struck me that while my blog tries to smile at my day to day experiences, frankly, none of it is funny. The article described how people had gotten together for a dinner party, read through a DSM (read psychiatrist condition and symptoms manual) checklist for a particular anxiety disorder and eventually the party determined that they ALL had some kind of mental illness. At this point I am sighing A LOT, getting angry much – but also challenging myself. Not known for my brevity, I will try and keep it short and simple:

People with “real” mental illness would NEVER make it up, and no, we’re not “exaggerating”. I have truly witnessed (and it happens regularly) the feeling that the earth will swallow me up. That my chest is empty – or filled with what feels like sharp shooting daggers when something painful is levelled at me, and particularly when I am am flooded with memories of a painful past. Yes my eyes leak, yes I tremble, yes I look to others for support. Sometimes I respond by being irritable, and sticking my claws out to all and sundry. No, I don’t need a cotton woolled existence, but I need you to know that it’s hard, very hard and I am trying my best, however and whatever that is at a given point, so please minimally respect THAT.

People with mental illness are invisible when they’re sick: Now I don’t own an invisible cape, although I’d love one for those earth swallowing moments, but it doesn’t happen. I have often experienced people talking about me, without me, in the same room. I have felt and seen raised eyebrows, nudges, and suggestions that I need a rest / take an anxiety tab (not in so many words) or be escorted home / to hospital etc. One of my personal favourites is when someone rubs my head and says it will be fine. Be strong. There is nothing “fine” about being actively ill, and minimally I don’t need my unruly mop of hair to be rubbed, I am not a pet and it doesn’t help with my I’m not homeless look attempts. Usually, I try to ignore it, or am so obviously overwhelmed with continuing to live in my body and brain, that it goes seemingly un-noticed. But I did see and I did feel the “wow you are so mentally ill but lets pretend you not vibe” and I cannot un-see or un-feel it. And when I can, I WILL take action against you because no-one ever, for any reason, should have their dignity stripped. I am NOT a small person – so newsflash to people who do this – I AM STILL THERE.

People with mental illness experience life akin to those people who are normal. I could write BLOGZ, BOOKS, NOVELS about what being normal means, how to pretend to do it and fit in (well for as long as you can) and I have come to the resounding conclusion that it’s over-rated, no-one really knows what it means, and everyone is constantly soul searching for their Dalai Lama explanation to life that is on a good day, very difficult. I’m done doing that, and I’ve thrown away the map to normal life. I’d rather try to bravely walk through my mental illness minefield, avoiding and sharing with others, just how to hop, skip and jump over life’s bombs. So thanks – but you can keep your normal.

You do or don’t need psychiatric medication and even when you do take it, you should be “fine”. I have a Bipolar friend who does not take psychiatric medication, and honestly, I don’t even know if he has a treatment team. Eeck. I do take my medication everyday, and I have a psychiatrist and psychologist on fast dial, and I see them regularly. In the country I live in, this kind of care is based on whether you have a private medical scheme and if you don’t – you at the mercy of a system where there are far too few psychiatric anythings, let alone medication. So I concede that I am part of the fortunate few. In my opinion – anything HEALTHY that helps you live life better is a definite must. My medication makes me VERY hungry – I’m at least 5 times the size I was before I took it – but now I can manage life (sometimes) much better than I did before. And the medication has other impacts: I am groggy in the morning, I stay hungry, the sleeping tabs don’t always work (though I don’t those continously). So it ain’t all sunshine and roses, and I certainly don’t get high. I also go to therapy once a week, journal, blog, colour in, spend time with my kids etc. So on meds – a yes please for me – alongside a mental health program that promotes all round wellness.

People with psychiatric illness are just like chronic somethings, and society at large should be afraid of us. If I base this on how I am, the truth is that I am probably my own worst enemy. There was a saying on Tumblr that said: Depression is continually roasting yourself. Emphasis on roast and continuous. And yes there are some mentally ill people who do scary things, but they are the minority, and most times the mental illness link is vague if at all. So there is nothing to be scared about. If you are however interested in learning how to get back up when you regularly fall but have to find the strength anyway, interested in getting through a wash of emotion, interested in understanding how to be sad and grieve – I, and most people with mental illness have BUCKET loads to teach you. And we will probably share your sadness or joy, wipe your tears and hug you in a way that you have not felt before. Because we know. Because we are experts in doing that kind of stuff. You can, without fear or favour – call me a master in dealing with everyday with emotions and other side splitting symptoms amplified.

So to those at the dinner party – put the freaking DSM away, stop finding fault with yourself, and pay ’nuff respect to people with mental illness. And if you don’t stop the discrimination we will start a movement where we will name and shame you publically on a website called: The Nervous Narcissistic Normal Namecallers.com. We will broadcast that you choose to pry on some of society’s most vulnerable – and often beautiful – beings. So respect us – each and every one – ’cause we damn well deserve it. Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t. I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

Awesome Guide to Bipolar Wellness…

So dear friends this Bipolar girl has been thinking long and hard about tips and tricks to “stay well”.  I haven’t been that for a bit, so it’s important that I reflect, and have a printable list for my growing, 2 page bullet journal.  Please remember that these are merely the thoughts, inclinations and experience of a Bipolar Brain that is much under construction – although I am importantly under the care of an awesome treatment team.  Yes, I use the word awesome A LOT.  Because staying well is trying to see the “awe”-some side of things, especially when it seems to be so difficult to do so.  Here are the tips and tricks that I’m um, learning and trying to practice.

Hold back on the caffeine:  Now this is a particularly difficult one.  I take meds that make me groggy, so in the morning, four cups or so swings me out of my serroquel brain mush, and I’m usually up and running by lunch.  LOL.  Truth is I’m told caffeine affects your mood, and it certainly contributes to those lovely, lonely insomnia hours where I swear at sleeping tablets, buzzing mosquitoes, and I dunno, the rest of the world that sleeps peacefully, while I do not.  So let’s give that fourth cup of joe a miss.  I’m not saying no coffee (if I had to choose between coffee and my husband, I would miss him alot), I’m just saying easy on the beans if you’d like um, less interrupted sleep.  I emphasise less here – as I am fully aware that insomnia ain’t just about the consumption of truckloads of coffee.

Make small things magical:  Now I am the kind of depressed someone that would just like to lay on the couch (under a comforting blanket), crooning Whitney Houston loudly, with appropriate drops of tears, shovelling chocolate into my mouth.  I have convinced myself that sugar, sad songs and sadness are synonymous, and have consumed all of these in large significant doses.  What have I learnt?  Only Whitney can do Whitney (RIP), sugar makes your rolls rounder, and encouraging sadness in any shape or form is just NOT a good idea.  Instead, see the magic in small things.  One example for me was looking at really old pics of my kids on Facebook.  My youngest daughter did so with me and hearing her laugh, and sharing their growing up memories with her warmed my heart and being.  You don’t need a child to make you see the magic – just direct your attention from your depression to small things – the colours of your blanket if you’re hiding under the covers, water glistening on plant leaves, sunshine rays on a wooden floor,  I almost said Unicorns, but let’s not go that far.  You get my drift.

Celebrate the little victories:  Celebrate victories that you achieve everyday, and these really vary on how you feel.  Do not start with a list that will disappoint you, rather lower your standards if you aren’t feeling well and celebrate what you can.  A victory could be having a meal (suggested), making a sandwich, heck taking a shower.  And again, per the tip above see the magic in it if you can.  ’cause when you feeling down there is no silver lining under the cloud, in fact you feel like its a tidal wave / storm about to break – but I am suggesting we create one AS BEST WE CAN.  Because feeling like sh*t is PRECISELY that, so Harry Potter your life if you can and chase that Voldemort depression vibe out of your life.  There are little ways that work for me:  hugs with people you love, journalling (or looking at my journal, cause some of it is pretty now if actual writing is too much), doodling, cooking (but screw the dishes), looking at old photographs or taking a small walk.  Get up if you can – and remember it’s for you.

Learn to say no more:  I am learning this one slowly.  My one friend always said that I had been born with a catholic sense of guilt – I feel sorry for things and people I haven’t even seen or met yet.  I apologise for behaviour I can and cannot control.  Most significantly I steam roll myself with the expectations of others.  I force myself to do stuff, talk to people etc. when I actually can’t, and it will and does affect my mental health.  I spoke yesterday about how my psychiatrist had said that I’m not disabled – that is true – but I am differently abled.  And for this reason, I need to say no a lot more.  For example – visits.  Visits are exhausting for me – well or not well – because I am who I am.  I slurp up emotions, hints, and things that are said – and I have been told that I do this a little too much.  Ok a lot too much.  And now I’m just saying na-uh. No.  Me matters more.

Breathe through anxiety:  Now anyone who has experienced anxiety will scoff at this suggestion.  But let’s just be honest, even if you take anxiety pills, the truth is that there is a period where you are a lot un-ok and you need to get through it.  My suggestion is breathing.  Again scoffing would be accepted – but breathing helps, and anything that can alleviate that chest splitting, stomach turning awful URGH, is welcome.  I do know however that when someone tells you this, it’s like being told to breathe through labour.  I swore at the first person who was “coaching” me through labour and you’re probably feeling the same way about anxiety but take it from this breathless Bipolar girl, it works.

Finally – don’t listen to the opinions of people who don’t matter: there is a saying that says:  the people who mind don’t matter, and the people who matter don’t mind.  I think that this is critical in preserving your mental health – with or without mental illness.  I haven’t been good at this, and the horrible things people have done has really affected me.  Affected me to the point where I don’t sleep.  Where I sing Whitney, shovel sugar and tearfully tread my days through.  Enough. OF. THAT.  I am taking my own advice, kicking Whitney out the playlist, eating regularly (with less sugar), being a badass and perhaps looking out for the odd Unicorn.  Why the heck not.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

 

 

 

Doing Famously

Dearest Followers – all 30 of you AWEsome people – thank you for being patient with 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.  You will note in my last blog, I promised not to make this space an ode to depression, and accordingly my blog and I have been separated whilst I had ODES (as in the plural of plural) of deep dark sluggish stuff none of us needs to vicariously be traumatised about or feel any more of.  Accordingly, I have kept to myself my sonnets of sorrow, and opted to press the depression fast forward button most days, also known as sleeping A LOT.

However, good Bipolar girl that I am, I have been in close contact with my treatment team and they are their usual supportive selves and think I’m doing famously. When seeing my psychiatrist, that lovely woman that gave what I thought everyone felt (but actually they didn’t) a “name / list” (some people would say diagnosis but that word sounds awfully terminal) just under ten years ago, and she was chattier than usual.  Most times, she listens, asks about meds, sleeping patterns etc. but this time she was more interested in how I FELT.  How I was dealing with my feelings.  Now this IS part of our usual one-one, but she was more interested than usual, and then said to me:  having Bipolar is not like having a disability and you are doing famously.    Famously.   I think my jaw dropped when she said that.  It really did.  Using all the courage I could muster, I asked her what the heck (well, it was a little bit more colourful than that) she meant – when I had felt a lot UNfamous for the weeks before.

I almost had this image of an overweight woman, decked out in an all too tight glittery dress, trembling nervously down the red carpet and crying by the time she got to the photographers, with fat rolls rumbling everywhere, scratching furiously in her bag for anxiety pills.  THAT is the closest I would ever come to coping famously.  The rest has been very much unlike that.  In unpacking whether Bipolar is a disability or not – I am sure she said this to encourage me, to egg me on.  But there are very many ways that you become, are aware of and experience limits in your life.  And actually, the more aware you are of these, the more likely you’ll be able to get on, dare I say it: “famously”.  A friend who recently visited who is not mentally ill described it as being at war with yourself.  I’m not sure I agree with her – I’m too busy arguing with me about what I think.  Laughs.

What I have essentially done over the last few weeks though is gone through a relapse at home.  My psychiatrist  booked me off, I took my meds, had too much sugar, and hibernated on our couch (close to Food Network, my happy place).  And I realised my limits.  I realised that I don’t need to fulfill anyone’s needs or expectations without looking after myself first.  I realised that it was important to take care of myself – even in little ways.  Someday’s it was a shower,  other days a walk or getting out with my children, or making my eldest daughter a birthday card.  And on some days I could, and on some days I couldn’t.  And I tried not to beat myself up too much about the couldn’ts.   It’s like a meme said I read:  depression is continuously roasting yourself.  And roast I did.

In my case however, it can be said that I am spoilt.  The husband that is (he is tentatively, and very precariously placed in the present tense) goes out of his way to look after me, as do my children.  I usually get my way and the biggest proverbial slice of cake.  I notice, I feel it and it makes my life better.    Perhaps it is unrealistic to expect that this would continue to be the case with the bigger world, but I do, and I’m ever so devastated when the world does not.  Silly right?  I should be big enough of a girl to know that the world is actually just a terrible place, regardless of whether you have a mental illness or not.

As I explained to the friend who said I was at war with myself: for me, having Bipolar is like getting on, being on and staying on a rollercoaster.  It’s all fun and games when you get on the ride, but the ups and stomach flipping downs throw you continuously, and you can experience a lifetime of emotion during one day.  And it may not be a disability, but it is f*cking exhausting.  Then after your emotionally draining day, there’s that exciting option of not sleeping.  That has happened to me too.  At 3 in the morning, smoking my cigarette (not recommended) I swore my psychiatrist, and said there was nothing famous about being WIDE awake in the dark, listening to your family snore.  NOTHING.

But I have survived it.  I’m starting to feel slightly better.  Hey I even blogged today right?  I packed my bag, and my outfit for tomorrow, and I’m going to put my big-girl Bipolar panties on and go to work and face the world.  Undecided on whether to wear that glittery fat rolling dress, or on whether to walk down any available red carpets,  I am starting by getting off the couch, “talking” through my blog, and doing the best I can, within my ability.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Bipolar Beehive

When I wake up in the morning it is important that I routinely follow a few steps. This routine allows me to collect those loose emotions that may be lying around, and to steel myself for the day’s events.       The first is a gentle wake up – it never feels like it is – as my medication makes me feel each day like I’ve had too much to drink and like there’s sawdust in my eyes when I wake up.  I have asked my psychiatrist for alternatives, but she thinks the dreaded Serraquel does the trick, and is worth the side effects.  Hmm.      The next step needs to be coffee, followed by a cigarette, and then I can possibly begin engaging for the day.    Oh I don’t mean an intellectual conversation or planning or anything like that, but a few grunts, yes or no etc. will do – until I’ve had my shower and gotten dressed.  By this time the caffeine has done its work, and I do feel better.

I work in a very stressful job, and each day has a number of deadlines and tasks to be completed that I need to be ‘calm and collected’ for.  There is also then engaging with colleagues – some of whom are not the brightest crayons in the box – throughout the day, unadulterated.  Breathes in.  I have not been known to suffer idiots gladly.  Particularly when said idiots discriminate against people who have mental illness.  Everyday, week on week, without fail I do this.  So it goes without saying that I DO need softness elsewhere.  I do need time to rest, to give my heart and mind a rest, even if only for a little bit.  I need those that live with and are close to me to be soft, to demonstrate their softness with me – so I am better able to navigate the rest of the world.

This is particularly so as a standing trait of my illness is irritation – and severe irritation at that.  Think messing in a beehive, and the angry bees come buzzing out, ready to sting the perpetrator to stop the beehive messing and potential honey theft.  Well, my routine and general wellness has been challenged of late.   Life, the universe and my immediate family are messing with my beehive alot.  Like they’ve taken the honey comb out, are eating it in front of me and saying: what you gonna do about it, whilst the honey drips off their lips.  Insert angry exploding emoji face here.  A case in point is this morning:  my eldest daughter was readying herself for her boyfriend’s birthday (and was completely focussed on that). This as she undertakes the second last year of her high school career, which will greatly inform her University prospects – and well, future.  She was insistent that the morning needed to run to the beat of her drum, that she needed to be chauffeured to boyfriend when it suited her, she shouted out her demands while I was trying to undertake mental health morning routine, even though she’s sixteen, and not my parent.

There have been other goings on including a threat of retrenchment at work, my life partner been given ‘notice’ that he may well not be part of my future (I haven’t made my mind up yet), and the Valentines lessons I wrote about yesterday.  And all this leads me to one place:  you teach people how to treat you, and unless I fundamentally address this, my bees are always going to have to be ready to attack.  And that is just tiring.  So what am I going to do?  I am going to use my bees where I need them the most.  For example. the threat of retrenchment:  I know that the organisation I work for has been trying to get rid of me ever since I disclosed that I am mentally ill and no, I am not going to let them get away with that.

My life partner and children will not do the bare minimum and get away with it.  They will not make me feel sorry for myself, push me into the victim / patient box (when it suits them) or just plain being rude and disrespectful.  I will not tolerate bad behaviour, being bossed around, or frankly focussing on the wrong things that just leads us as a family to fighting in the home, and negative behaviour that is not in the interests of my – or anybody else’s – mental health.   I refuse to live in a home that is unhappy, where the roles are confused, and where EVERYONE isn’t making an effort for the individual and collective good.  And if this doesn’t change, I will following my husband’s lead, be finding somewhere else to live.  Because the threat of a relapse is real – and I do not know that I will come out unscathed.  And I cannot afford that.

Because I am not a bad person.  I have tried to work hard, contribute to my family and even try to assist in ensuring that everyone’s happy.  But actually, I don’t have that power – happiness lies within each and everyone’s own hands – and I what I really need to do is focus on myself.  I need to focus on looking after me and staying well.  My main goal this year is to avoid a repeat hospitalisation,    which would be my 7th in a row, as each time I’m hospitalised, I lose even more of me, and my ability to be in the world.  So I am not going to lie under the bed and cry.  I am not going to feel sorry for myself.  And I’m not going to tolerate anyone messing with me or my beehive.  Because my bees know very well how to attack – and no-one should want to be on the receiving end of that.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.